Her floor is my ceiling
by Swamy
Summary: AU. Jon Snow comes back home from a mission and meets his new neighbor
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** I'm quite new to the fandom, infact Jaime/Brienne is my OTP for asoiaf/got, but I was inspired to write for jonsa, and I thought it would do me good to try and write for another fandom. This is my fist (...and last?) jonsa fic, please let me know what you think about it. If you're one of my readers you'll know I have very limited time to write, so if yuou want to support me leave me a review, and if you can/want buy me a coffee, you'll find the link to my kofee page into my profile or over my tumbr page at paintedwithwords. My inbox is always open for questions and prompts, but I'll only do them if the inspiration strikes and if I have the time to.

Again, I hope you enjoy. Happy reading.

#

A sudden gust of northern wind insinuates itself under his uniform giving him a brief chill. Jon is a northern man, and he is used to the cold but he spent his travel back to his solitary house dozing in and out of an unrestful sleep, and his body needs a hot shower, possibly a proper rest, before he can go pick up Ghost and feel good again.

There is a sound of light steps, the clicking of high heels approaching behind him and heavy luggage being dragged along the marble floor. His first instinct, when he hears the heavy shutting of the giant front door of his building, is to check on the visitor, study their movements, decide if they are a threat to security, but he fights the urge to turn around and instead keeps his nose buried in his mail as he flips through it. It's mostly junk mail, a couple of bills and a letter from Tormund, surely going on and on about _the big woman _and the pretty boy that doesn't leave her side long enough for him to make his crucial move.

He's about to take the steps to his floor when he hears a moan behind him. It takes him a moment to register the disappointment in the whiny sound the girl made as he stares at her graceful profile. Her auburn hair shines as it's hit by the daylight entering from a large window, and she's biting her lower lip as she keeps her scowling look fixated on the _out of service_ sign on the elevator doors.

There is something extremely melancholic about her willowy figure, about the autumnal colors that makes her look so ethereal, and yet her attire is every bit the latest trend of the moment. Or so he supposes. It's not really his area of expertise.

"Oh, damn," she mutters, turning towards him with the clear blue gaze of someone completely devoid of any wall. "Please," she begs, "Tell me there is a service elevator, at least."

There is something so candid about her, so real, it's like she's standing naked in front of him. So much so, he feels himself _blush_ stupidly.

He stares at her for long seconds, undoubtedly making her doubt his mental capacity, before he finds himself shaking his head, "I'm afraid not, ma'am."

She sighs, shrugging her shoulders. "This must be my day. One disaster after—"

"What's your floor?" he asks, interrupting her. He's not used to talking to people _just to talk_. It's either being on the receiving end of orders from his commanding officer or the sounding board for his hopeless love-sick friend. Either way, he likes it like this. Jon Snow is not the best when it comes to words.

Like, for example, if someone should ask him now to describe the young girl standing in front of him, he would never be able to master the right words, to talk about the creamy color of her pale skin, or find the way to describe the color of her freckles. He'd need the vocabulary of men much more well-read than him.

"The last," she says, and he grabs the handle of her white luggage to carry it up the stairs.

"I don't travel light," she rushes to say, quite alarmed for his well-being, "You'll hurt your back, and I'll feel so guilty about it," she says as she follows him up the stairs.

"I won't," he replies, as he keeps his backpack on the right shoulder with one hand, and the giant suitcase with the other.

"I'm really grateful for the help," she says, "You never know what kind of neighbors you're going to find when you move in a new place. Plus, when you live in a large family, being on your own, with no one to lend you a hand when you need it, it's so much harsher." She explains, "Not that I'm really alone. I mean, I'm moving in with my boyfriend, but he's away for a business trip and I wanted to settle in before he's back so that he doesn't have to trip between my stuff while I organize my things." She explains, "But I am a lucky girl, it seems," she adds with a smile as they stop in front of the door of her new apartment.

"I'm Sansa Stark, by the way." Her smile is soft, she smells like flowers, and she reaches out her delicate hand for him to hold. Her name squeezes air out of his lungs.

Jon does hold her hand, embarrassedly, for his own is callous and rough and it feels wrong to touch someone like her. Like she's a mission he's not ready for. He hasn't gotten that kind feeling in years.

"Jon," he offers "Jon Snow".

"You live here too, I guess?" she asks, trying to coerce a few words more out of him.

"In the apartment right under yours."

"Are you just back from a mission, Jon?" She joins her hands in front of her as she looks at his clothes.

"I can't disclose any details about my location," he repeats mechanically, out of habit. "Sorry" he adds, mortified when he realizes he just spoke to her like she was another fellow soldier, ready to accept the non-explanation he gave.

"It's fine," she replies, making a waving gesture with one hand. "My dad gave the same answer to my mom, every single time. Once, for his birthday, my sister and I gave him a t-shirt with _I can't disclose any details about my location _written on top of it. He wore it until it fell practically apart."

As she tells him about her father, he reconciles her graceful image with the pretty girl wearing pink wings on the desk of Eddard Stark, and he feels a wave of emotion facing the daughter of the man that made him the soldier he is. He was away on a mission when he died, and he could never attend his funeral. He would like to tell her he's sorry, extend his condolences, but it would be quite an awkward icebreaker, so he stays silent.

When he goes out to drink with his buddies, it's one of them to break the ice with the girls. His silence, his dark eyes, tell a story of secrecy and roughness, and he harvests the fruits of his image, though Jon does not feel like a mysterious man.

When a girl lets him have her company he opens the door for her, helps her sit at the table, makes sure she comes before he does, like a true gentleman, but his job is a good enough excuse for both of them to disappear from each other's lives, so he doesn't need to talk much at all.

Right now, he would like to talk to Sansa, but in front of her his brain is constantly one moment too late in thinking of what he's supposed to say.

"I better go inside now," she adds, slipping a hand into her denim skirt's pocket to take the key chain. There is a silver crown with tiny pink stones dangling from it.

"Of course," he just nods.

"I'll try not to walk around much in heels."

"It's fine. I don't mind the noise," he replies, sincerely. He's used to quietude and loneliness. It is comfortable like this, but her company, if only through the sound of her footsteps, doesn't seem so bad.

"That's good to know. I'm actually the clumsiest girl on earth and I constantly run out of glasses, so you'll have plenty of company while I'm here," she grimaces at the prospect of breaking half of her boyfriend's furniture.

When he enters his minimally furnished apartment, the echo of her trolley suitcase accompanies him as he walks towards his bedroom to leave his backpack. And her steps follow him to the living room where there's only a sofa, a stereo system and a giant cushion for Ghost. He sits and throws back his head, to rest, eyes up towards the ceiling, distractedly thinking about his new neighbor as his eyelids grow heavier.

There are four curt knocking sounds a pause and two more knocks coming from the ceiling.

Jon can't help his boyish smile at her use of the Morse code.

"Hi yourself," he answers.

#

She's holding the heavy vase against her chest as she tries to rummage through the bag precariously dangling from her shoulder with the other, as he walks up to the front door of the building. Ghost runs to her like he knows her, his paws pressing against her side as he tries to get her attention and the bag from off Sansa's shoulder onto the concrete.

"Hey there," she tries to calm him down, patting his head as Jon rushes to pick her bag up from the pavement.

"Sorry." He opens the door, grabbing Ghost by the collar, "Calm down, buddy," pulling the direwolf after him as he keeps the door open using the length of his body. "He usually behaves much better, I don't know what's gotten into him."

"He likes me," she says brightly. She looks so young as she announces it, and it seems to be very important for her to be liked by people. Jon can't imagine anyone not liking her.

He lets go of Ghost's collar to reach the elevator and press the button. "You can't come Ghost, you know that," he says patiently, as the direwolf tilts his head to look at him. "Go home and wait for me," he says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the stairs. The direwolf looks at him, then at Sansa and back again. "Go," Jon repeats, and Ghost complies obediently.

"He's magnificent," she says, as the doors of the elevator open with a _ding_.

"You're not scared of him," he notices, a little amazed at that. Direwolves are not common, and not very domestic. Whenever he walks the streets with Ghost at his side people pull away.

"I'm not," she shakes her head. "My dad brought direwolf cubs home a couple of years before he passed away. Five of them, one for each of us. Well, they were six in the beginning…" she explains. "I have a direwolf, too, but I had to leave her with my mother because Ramsey doesn't like her very much… Lady doesn't like him either."

"Oh," is Jon's only reply. He doesn't like Ramsey either. He met him a few times. He put a lot of effort into looking elegant and mannered, but he was mean-spirited with anyone with less money than him, and an adulator with anyone that could flaunt a better name.

"My sister trusts our direwolves' instinct more than mine," she mumbles, unhappy, "but Ramsey was very sweet to me. So, I told anyone back home that I wanted to move to try and live alone and be independent." She explains, looking down at the buds in her vase.

She's clearly sorry about her lie, torn between her hunger for romantic love and her need of her family's approval, so Jon tries to sway her mind towards another topic entirely, so that she won't feel so sad anymore.

"What are those?" he asks, looking at the droplet-like, downturned white petals of the flowers.

"These are snowdrops," she answers, readily. "Ramsey's apartment is kind of cold. I thought flowers could make it better," she explains. "I want to buy English primroses and hellebore plants, too. And I'm going to use winter honeysuckle to make cookies when it gets colder."

"My grandmother used to make the filling for my favorite cake with those," he says, leaving Sansa surprised and happy about his little secret. She met him just once, but she knows Jon is not one to _overshare, _and she feels a bit proud that he has deemed her worthy to know something personal about him. She should take the compliment and shut up instead she finds herself asking.

"Did you spend much time with your grandmother?"

"Yeah, well, my mom died when she had me, and my father battled with depression for many years because of that, so, yeah…" Her eyes grow wild at that and he feels a lot like a fool for having told her something so personal, for having been so vulnerable. He's a soldier. Vulnerability is not his thing. And why should be she sad about his own sadness? Why should he taint her with it? She's young, and bright, and she should only know happiness. That's why she's found herself someone like Ramsey Bolton. He can flatter and worship at any altar, and sugarcoat anything so that life will always taste sweet if only a bit false.

He slips out of the elevator the very moment the doors crack open. "I'll see you around," entirely forgetting about the bag he's still holding for her.

Sansa feels the sudden suffocating need to soothe a wound that is probably already scarred over. "Jon, wait—"

When she gets to her own floor, with glossy eyes and a heart beating so fast she feels breathless, Ghost is waiting for her, the forgotten bag between his sharp teeth with not a single scratch on the brown leather.

She takes it from the direwolf's mouth, gets down on the heels of her feet to pat his head gently.

"Don't leave him alone, okay?" she says, and she's not sure if she's talking to Ghost or to herself.

#

When Ramsey comes back the apartment feels a bit warmer, the look of it a bit kinder to the eyes. There's a card framed on top of a cabinet, something her father used to say when she was a child and she used to fight with her siblings, something a stranger reminded her about when he died. _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_.

Ramsey says that it's too much about her alone, about a family he's not part of, and it makes him feel rejected, so she puts the frame away because it seems right.

After a couple of days, during breakfast, he looks up from his copy of the Westeros Daily newspaper to grimace at her. "This smell is giving me a headache," and she must relegate her pretty flowers into the darkest corners of the room. Behind the curtains so that he won't be irritated at their sight.

He dislikes flowers, particularly the snowdrops she likes so much. He says they look weak with their downturned petals. He only likes strong things. He's family produces prosthesis, and he's trying to develop artificial limbs to implant on the strongest soldiers to make them even more resistant.

He collects abstract pieces of art, and she wonders about the things he sees in those violent, chaotic strokes of color.

He works a lot, and when he doesn't he's got public relationships to entertain and she's the decoration on his arm, the royal accessory on his 5,000 dollars suit. She tries not to be bothered about it, tells herself it is a compliment. He thinks her so beautiful, so perfect that she elevates him in front of the world, but when she can't stand it anymore, one day when she's working at refining a model she's working on he accuses her of being too stupid to understand how the world works. And he holds her tiny wrists so hard she can't hold a needle for a week.

But that week she gets showered with gifts and he tells her he was just stressed, and he needs her so much. It won't happen again, he promises. She's too important, he swears.

And Sansa has always been so good at _believing_.

#

"Hi," she says as Jon walks towards the stairs while she's waiting for the elevator.

"Hi," he says, barely raising his eyes to meet hers.

Sansa feels disappointed, though she has other things to be disappointed about lately.

"Haven't you ran enough?" she asks as Jon takes the stairs at a fast pace. He stops at the top of the first flight and turns around. The question, after what he told her last time, feels a bit like an accusation.

"I mean," she says, "I'd like some company," she says, without turning around, holding the bag of groceries with both hands

He silently comes back down, slipping both his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. His blue shirt is sticking to his skin after the long run, and his hair held in a bun. On the metal of the doors she can see the toned muscles of his arms.

"I'm usually not much company," he admits, clearing his throat nervously, "Or so I'm told." He probably stinks of sweat and she'll have to take a shower just for being in his proximity.

"They don't know what they're talking about," she offers, turning her head to smile at him.

Jon lets her in first, making way with a gesture of his hand and standing as far away as possible in the restricted space to not subject her to his smell.

"Where is Ghost?" she asks.

"Amusing a friend of mine," he says, gaining a curious look from the girl. "Ed thinks Ghost is the perfect tool to pick up girls, and maybe it would work if Ghost didn't snub his orders like he considered him an idiot," and she giggles at that.

"I was impressed with your Morse code, you're the firs—"

The elevator stops, but the usual _ding_ doesn't go off, and the doors don't open. The panel seems unresponsive when Jon tries to push the buttons.

"Damn," he mutters. He's left his cellphone home, though he shouldn't have, and he turns towards Sansa to ask, "Do you have your phone with you?"

"Sure," she nods and hands it to him. There is a number to contact on the metal plate under the panel, together with the manufacturing company, The Vales Corporation.

They assure them they'll send someone, but it will take them at least twenty minutes to manage the traffic. Jon is relieved to hear it, a little less when he turns to Sansa to see her paling.

"Are you okay?" he asks cautiously, and though she nods her positive answer he doesn't feel much reassured. "Are you claustrophobic?"

"No," she says, but she doesn't talk, and her fingers are tight about her grocery bag handles, the sleeves of her shirt long over the back of her hands.

Jon takes a step back to give her space, but she turns her eyes to him to say, "Don't," and he swallows.

"Let's sit down, okay? There's a bit of a wait, so we could at least be comfortable." He takes the bag from her hands to put it down on the floor. She flinches when his hand brushes against her wrist. He wants to ask her if he's scaring her, if she feels uncomfortable next to him, but she offers a smile and nods. Still, she sits so stiffly he thinks she'll hurt herself.

"I've been captured once," he says, trying to get her attention. She turns towards him with a worried look, like she has already forgotten that they are trapped into a tiny space and she's scared.

"Jon…"

His stomach hurts the moment her lips part for his name, and it takes him a moment to go back to his story. "When I'm on a mission I'm always prepared for any outcome, but that time, I didn't know what would happen. They were a group of outlaws that preyed on war territories, and I wasn't of much value to them. So, I pretended to be a deserter. I told them I could point them to all the places where they could find valuable stuff to steal…"

"Did they believe you?"

"I'm not the best of liars," he admits, mortified, "But they were hungry for anything of value to get out of me, and though I'm not one that people die to be around, I could be useful," he tells her. "Sometimes people will buy a lie if it's wrapped prettily enough."

Sansa looks away at that, but he doesn't notice, lost to the memory of that time.

"I fell in love, then."

"What?" She's so surprised by the revelation she raises her voice.

"She was one of my captors." He wants to tell her she had red hair too, but that would sound _creepy_ and so he doesn't. "She was a bit crazy, but she was fiery, and I admired that in her."

"Where is she now?" she asks, feeling a bit _jealous_. Jon talks about her with such fondness, with such awe, and it's hard not to think about the way Ramsey looks at her, like a rare animal to put on display, with that same sharp look he has when he counts the zeros on his bank account.

"She didn't make it," he says, a shadow covering his honest face for a moment.

"I'm sorry," she offers, trying to sound sincere, wondering if she really is. If she's a bad person for disliking her just one moment ago and offering her sympathy right after. She's not used to wishing ill on anybody. She thought she was bad when she used to rat out her sister to her parents but she didn't feel like a bad person, only lately has she found herself capable of hate.

"She was aware of what could happen, and she chose that life…"

What has Sansa chosen instead? She wonders, thinking about the moment the doors will open, and she'll go back to her floor to wait for Ramsey and see what mood he in, how valuable she is to him today, if he'll like her more when she obediently gets undressed.

Her breathing becomes labored and Jon's hand cups her face. She looks alarmed, for it's the first time he touches her and it feels a lot like _home_. And she misses home _so_ badly.

"It's okay," he says, and she shuts her eyes to concentrate on the feel of his callous hand first, on the gentle voice that make her shiver in relief after. "It's okay," he repeats. She can only take in one detail at a time, she thinks if she tries to have more her heart will not be able to.

Jon holds her to his side, forgetting his sweaty clothes and the name she bears. She lets him, and willingly hides her face in the crook of his neck, gripping his damp shirt with her slender fingers. Her hair smells like jasmine and it falls over his large hand when his fingers reach the back of her head.

"I'm here with you, Sansa," he promises.


	2. Chapter 2

"This must be my fault," he says, his thumb rubbing a circle in a particular spot under her ear that makes something melt inside her stomach.

When she speaks, she's dazed, she blinks trying to break the spell casted by the smell of his skin, a warm mixture of wood and northern wind and sweat. Her fingers refuse to let go of the fabric of his t-shirt and a part of her wonders suddenly about the texture of his skin, wants to see the planes of his chest and know exactly the pull of his muscles when he breathes.

It takes her a moment to shoo her thoughts away. She should be ashamed of herself. She is in a relationship and her body is responding to another man, one that is caring for her the way a brother would, one honorable and good to the bone. Yes, maybe her relationship is not everything she wanted it to be, but she's still in one.

"What do you mean?" she asks, looking up at him the way she would look up at one of her romantic heroes in the love movies she always liked so much.

"Every time we're in an elevator together I manage to tell you a sob story about my past and I've upset you," he confesses. "I don't even consider them sob stories actually, but every time I speak to you I end up putting my foot in my mouth" he sounds embarrassed, and she thinks that even in the closed space of the elevator she can see his cheeks blush a tiny bit.

Sansa can't help but giggle at that. Jon smiles. His smile is not big, doesn't mean to impress, but his eyes squint and she can see wrinkles and her stomach drops.

"You don't upset me," she reassures him with a soft tone she really hadn't meant to use.

In one of those movies she likes so much, this would be the moment for their first kiss. So close, Jon would look at her mouth, and lower his head to taste it slowly, and he would say that they belong together, and he would vow to steal her heart away from her boyfriend, and he would swear to love her forever.

But stuff like that happens in books and movies.

What happens in reality is that the door cracks open and a fat man smiles at her like he's her savior.

#

Jon takes his shirt off as the water jet hits the base of the shower, but as he looks at himself in the mirror he can't help but feel Sansa's body pressed to his side, holding him back from taking a shower with the desire to not wash her away from his body.

As they sat trapped inside the tiny metal box of the elevator all of him was concentrated on making her feel safe, on calming her down, on reassuring her that nothing would happen, that she could endure this little accident and come out of it unscarred. For half an hour she was his own to protect, and as such he has chosen to forget that she was a grown up girl, long limbed and soft in all the right places, always smelling like winter flowers, her nose and cheeks sprinkled in freckles that looked like melted sugar every time she stood too long under the sun.

Now, alone in his apartment, her footsteps right above him remind him of her presence, of her closeness, of the way she entered his brain like it had no barriers to begin with, dancing over his head as she does inside his dreams. He can feel the lingering warmth of her breath against the column of his neck, her words hitting the lobe of his ear and her slender fingers gripping his chest where there's now no fabric to cover it, her pink fingernails leaving little crescent moon on the skin.

It doesn't matter what he tells himself – that she's too young, that she's too bright for his baggage, that she's nothing like the girls he's dated or fucked during the years, that she's Ned's daughter – his blood won't stop burning. Suddenly, inexplicably, he realizes that from the first time he saw her, nothing else matters but Sansa.

Turning his head, he can see her, smiling her softest smile, resting her chin on his shoulder as she holds his arm with both her own and lets him feel the softness of her breasts pressed against his muscles.

Jon bites his lower lip letting his eyes envision her naked shoulder and the dipping between her breasts. With a little remorse he wonders if she'd be upset to know the way he's thinking about her right now.

"You don't upset me," her voice echoes into his mind, soft and needy, making his blood run faster.

#

Ramsey is not who she thought he was and a part of her is screaming to pack her bags and leave his apartment before he's got a chance to be back. The other admonishes her because she's being childish and weak.

Yes, they didn't start exactly with the right foot, but she remembers her mother, telling her about the difficulties of love, the hardships of marriage, the times her father pulled away and became distant, wrapped in the darkness of war that seemed to want to drag him back and away from his family. And maybe she should endure it now and help Ramsey out of whatever struggle he's in, whatever struggle is making him change from the charming boy he was when he was courting her.

There is a little voice inside her head telling her that she's just trying to prove to herself that she did all that she could, that it's not her fault their relationship hasn't worked out, that it has nothing to do with that concupiscent feeling she felt as she was curled up against Jon's hard chest.

To her relief, Ramsey doesn't manage to come back home before she's fallen asleep, and the next day he's too wrapped up in his newspaper to pay attention to her wondering eyes, to her thoughts that get so easily carried away by the northern wind.

She bakes cookies filled with vanilla and winter honeysuckle cream, but on the table, she puts pancakes and buttered toasts instead.

Ramsey's eyes shine with glee as he reads a column on the first page of the Westeros Daily.

"You seem in a pretty good mood," she says, adventuring herself into a conversation.

"Oh, you're wrong," he says, his smile sharp as he looks at her. "One of my former associates has just met a misfortune. I should send his family a basket…" His smile is chilling.

"That's…horrible." She's confused by the contrast between his expression and his words.

"Indeed, dear," he confirms mellifluously.

"Is he a friend of yours?" she asks, cautious as she sips on her tea to keep herself calm and composed.

He studies her for a moment, his expression unchanged as he explains quietly, "Anyone who leaves me is an enemy, Sansa." He folds the newspaper, stands from the table and leans over to kiss her forehead, "And it will be treated as such."

He turns around ready to leave, then turns again opening his arms to show her his new suit.

"Do you like it?" he asks, "I have a conference this morning, I should look my best."

She doesn't answer his question. Instead she replies, "You have great taste," readily stroking his ego to keep him happy.

"I do, don't I?" he replies satisfied.

Sansa doesn't even blink as she hears the clicking of the front door. Composedly, she brushes her lips with the napkin and reaches her hand out to take the newspaper and read the column that was making her boyfriend so giddy.

Roose Bolton, Ramsey's father, has been attacked by a mugger and unmercifully killed. His new wife after the aggression has chosen to leave, not before publicly confessing that the child she's pregnant with is not her husband's. Uncaring of her reputation she has released an interview to assure everyone that _Ramsey has just lost his beloved father, he shouldn't lose his company too and I want everyone to know that I will make no demand of him._

She remains sitting at the table, with the newspaper abandoned in front of her, for almost four hours. When she leaves a pastel paper bag of cookies in front of Jon's house, she's aware she can't leave Ramsey. Not yet.

#

Jon opens his mouth to offer his condolences but Ramsey sighs happily and it breaks the words on his tongue. He himself never had a perfect relationship with his dad. He was a broken man, the shadow of the legend everyone else knew, but he understood his pain, and he didn't have the heart to hold it against him; so, when he passed, Jon's heart broke all the same for the man that he was and the one he couldn't be.

Ramsey, instead, is all cheerful smiles. And though three weeks have passed since Roose Bolton's death, it seems rather too soon for his mood to be so merry again. Still, Jon scolds himself and greets him with a "Good evening" as they cross each other in the lobby.

He should be less judgmental of the man he envies, especially when everyday he brings out Ghost for a run at the same hour just so that he'll meet Sansa and have her walk with him for a bit as they reach the park. Ed would tell him he was right, a direwolf is the perfect tool to pick up girls. If the girl in question was not already off the market, and way too good for him. Still, that doesn't matter when her pursed lips touch the edge of her paper cup as she drinks her hot coffee, sitting next to him on her favorite bench.

"It's a good evening indeed," the man agrees readily. Jon looks at him longer that he meant to, puzzled, and Ramsey Bolton seems to remember his grief. "I wish my dad was here, but, oh he would be so proud of how I'm running his business."

"I'm sure."

"It is painful, but I'm trying to be strong…" he says, his face grimacing in the effort to look troubled. "And my lovely girlfriend does _anything_ to make me feel better." It's like the guy can't help being slimy whenever he tries to convey a human emotion.

Jon's jawbone makes a cracking sound as he tries to still his expression. He nods, slipping both his fists into the pockets of his black jeans, before he's too tempted to put them to a better use, and leaves to go and buy Ghost's food.

On the way back he scrolls through his contacts and slides his thumb over Melisandre's name. Her eyes are blue and her hair is red and she can't touch his heart, but she's sensual and ready and she doesn't expect him to call her the next day.

When she answers her door he doesn't let her guide him to the bedroom. "Jon what—" He presses her to the shut door—"_Oh_"—pinning her hands above her head and using his implacable fingers to get her off. She's appreciative and vocal about it, but as soon as she's come he realizes he was with another all along, and so he clears his throat as she licks his fingers clean and excuses himself, leaving her house unsatisfied and angry at himself.

He walks back home trying to cool down, trying to stop thinking about Sansa and Ramsey and what a fucking pathetic idiot he is. He greets Ghost when he enters his apartment but even the direwolf ignores him, the animal just paces back and forth, turning his big head to the ceiling every now and then and showing his teeth.

"Aren't you hungry?" Jon asks, filling his bowl.

He distractedly washes his hands, without even bothering taking off his jacket and rummages through the fridge to find something to eat. In the end, he decides to stick to a liquid diet and fills up a glass of the worst ale he can find. It would start the engine of a car.

He hears it as he's taking his second painful sip, the knocking sounds, confused. He can't understand it at first because it gets interrupted in the wrong places, but then it comes again. It is a little off, some pauses not right, and there are other sounds too, but he gets it, the Morse code. _Help_.

He's immediately out of the door and up to the last floor, knocking at the door more heavily that he wanted to.

"Who's that?" Ramsey's voice is clearly irritated and Jon's teeth are on edge.

"Jon Snow," he calls from behind the door. "I've just caught a guy trying to steal your car. I thought you'd want to make his acquaintance," he lies smoothly for the first time in his life and feels triumphant as he hears Ramsey's' steps towards the door.

Behind him, immobile with hands keeping together the edges of a tore shirt there's Sansa, pale and trembling.

"Where is he?" Ramsey asks, looking around like a frenzied animal smelling blood.

"May I?" Jon asks as he's entering the apartment without giving a second look to the man. He takes off his jacket and covers Sansa's shoulders with it. "It's okay," he assures her.

"How dare you—" Ramsey's voice is shrill as he walks back inside to grab Jon's arm and pull it away, but Jon is faster, and Jon is very angry and the sound of a cracking bone reverberates in his chest when he hits him the first time. But then there's a second, and a third, and at some point Jon finds himself hitting a bloody pulp on the floor before Sansa takes a step in his direction clearing the fog in his head with her blue eyes.

Jon stands again, adrenaline running so fast in his veins that he's shaking in cold fury. She quiets it down with her thin voice. "Jon…" she calls his name. "Can we go?"

Jon nods, wiping the blood off his hands onto his black jeans, and puts his arm around her waist without touching her, so that he won't dirty her. Ghost is snarling down at Ramsey the moment they are out the door, protecting their retreat.

The door of his apartment is open but she doesn't cross the threshold. It is Jon that must invite her in, "Sansa, please." She's pale and shaken but she doesn't make a sound, just steps inside and sits down when he begs her to.

"I'm sorry," he says, handing her a glass of water. She must hold the hems of his jacket closed with one hand as she uses the other to take the glass he offers her. "I didn't mean to—" but he stops himself, because lying is not his thing and she knows.

"What did he do to you?" he asks, unprepared for her answer but willing to share the burden as he sits next to her on the sofa.

"I can't…" she begins. "Right now, I can't…"

"Yeah, I understand," he nods, closing his hands to try and hide the blood drying on his skin from her sight.

"You want me to take you to the hospital?" he asks, searching her body for any sigh of a wound. Her bun is undone, there is a cut on her lower lip and the red mark of a slap that will surely become a purple bruise by morning.

She shakes her head 'no,' lowering her eyes.

"Should I bring you home?" but again she shakes her head 'no.'

"I don't want them to see me like this," she explains.

"Okay, then, what do you say about a hot shower, huh? It will make you feel better. And I'll cook you something edible. If I can manage." He waits for her to finally look at him.

She doesn't and it eats at his soul.

"Sansa, do you want—"

"Later," she just says, turning towards him to cling on his shoulders and hide her face in the crook of his neck, releasing a sob. She cries, and everything is okay, for Jon holds her tight, and he smells of wood and northern wind and makes her feel home again.

"I won't _ever_ let him touch you again," he swears.

And Sansa knows that Jon is a man of his word.

#

Jon turns his head over his shoulder as he's plating the food he's cooked. There are only a few recipes he knows how to do to perfection, because at some point he tried to impress Daenerys but she never got to taste any of them, since they fell in bed before he could get it done.

The sleeves of his sweater are way too long for Sansa. Her hands are hidden inside the fabric as she silently steps inside his little kitchen, one braid falling over her right shoulder, skin fresh from her shower. She has to drag her feet to not lose his slippers on the way to the table.

"Hey," he says, as she timidly approaches, turning around with two plates in his hands to place them on the table, "I've prepared chicken marsala…" She stares at the plates with hesitancy. "Though, I probably should have asked you before if you liked it," he adds tentatively. "I can always call delivery if you want."

"No," she shakes her head, smiling at his thoughtfulness. "It's fine. I like chicken marsala," she says politely, sitting at the table. Jon does the same, and yet he feels clumsy even doing such a simple thing compared to Sansa. She's wearing his sweater and a pair of pajama pants he's never wore; and yet, even like this, her demure is rather _regal_. Though he hasn't been able to ignore a single detail about her, he still doesn't know how he ended up like this, sitting at his table, ready to have dinner with her.

She cuts her meat, eats slowly and doesn't speak much. Jon is used to silence, and comfortable with it but this one comes from sadness and fear and it's trying to strangle him. Still, he doesn't want to pressure her, just so that he can feel better.

Sansa raises her eyes from the plate and stares at him. Her pursed lips finally relax when she says, "He'll want to hurt you, now."

"I'd like to see him try," he replies with a genuine smile that gets reflected on her face. "That's the only thing that worries you?"

"I dragged you into my mess," she replies, feeling the slight of guilt.

"I actually knocked at the door of your mess, if you recall," he says, the hand holding the fork pointing vaguely in her direction as he highlights the point, his smile firmly on his lips. Jon usually smiles so very little. It gets distracting when he does.

"And then you punched my mess in the face," she adds, trying not to sound gleeful about it. It's an easy task to accomplish because suddenly she can hear the siren of a police car and she rushes to the window to look down. She can see four policemen running to the front door of the building, and her face drains of blood as she waits.

Jon walks up to her, one hand brushing along her arm as he tries to reassure her. "Everything will work out, a couple of hours at most and I'll be out."

She turns to him with purpose in her clear eyes. Sansa can look fragile and be exhausted, and a little heartbroken maybe, but she's not scared anymore.

"They're not here for you," she says, neck bending back as she's listening for the sound of steps in the apartment above.

Ghost comes wagging his tail and he pushes his head towards Sansa's hand.

"He thought I was too pretty to be smart," she explains candidly, "and he was too self-centered to know better than leaving me alone with all of his precious things."

#

He puts one knee down as he looks for a pair of warm socks inside the drawer of his nightstand. They are easy to find because there's not much stuff that he owns.

"You're kind of…minimalist," she says, looking around herself. If she didn't know better she'd say he's just moved, but there are no boxes around. The place is pretty clean and neat, though it lacks a feminine touch. She's horridly relieved at the thought.

"Yeah, well, I don't need much." He stands and hands her the socks as she sits on his bed, her legs pressed together as she keeps her naked feet off the floor. A square piece of paper falls on the floor and Sansa looks down to see a woman with silver hair and violet eyes look up at her with a smile, as she sits next to Jon, her arm draped over his shoulders.

He picks it up, puts it back in the drawer, closing it immediately.

"She's very pretty," she comments. She's actually more than pretty. She's gorgeous, rather _magnetic_. There's something about her that speaks of a subtle power, and her eyes, so vivid, makes her think of the heart of a flame. Sansa can't help but ask herself if Jon got burned by that flame. Still, there's no trace of her in Jon's bedroom and she's too tired to think about that now.

"Yeah, she is," he admits reluctantly.

"Is she…" she starts, resenting herself for her curiosity, choosing to not complete her question to appear like a little girl. A _jealous_ little girl.

"A fellow soldier," he says, though the moment he does they both know it's just a half truth. "She's a detonation specialist," he tells her, but what Sansa hear instead is all the things that woman has in common with Jon and she doesn't.

She shouldn't think about that, Sansa reproaches herself. She's just escaped an abusive boyfriend and she's behaving like a teenager over another man. A gorgeous-looking, kind-hearted, soul-stirring one.

"I'll be in the sitting room if you need me," he says, turning to walk away, but before he can take the second step she stops him.

"Don't," Sansa rushes to say. He obeys, easily taking her order like she was a queen, standing still to turn again and look at her.

"I can take a chair and sit next—"

"Couldn't you sleep with me?" she asks, and before he can say more than her name she adds, "I know it's not proper, and I know that I'm being a burden to you, but I would really feel better if you could stay," she explains, sliding back from the side of the bed where she was sitting.

"Wouldn't you feel uncomfortable?" He wants to stay, he wants to stay and guard her, but she's been attacked by a man that was supposed to love her, and he doesn't know how long his abuse has been going on, doesn't know if her long sleeves on the mild afternoon were dictated by her fashion choices or the need she had to cover the bruises. He was too grateful to her for not showing him any skin to wonder about her reasons.

"I would feel safe," she confesses.

That's all it takes for him to nod his dutiful response. Jon walks to the bed, helps her under the covers and lays down on top of them, reclined against the headboard as she curls up to his side.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asks, once she looks comfortable enough.

"He killed his dad," she says, making him turn his head towards her sharply, like a crow.

"The honeymoon period ended soon enough," she starts again after a short pause, "I thought something was troubling him. I tried to be thoughtful, but he was just so cold. And I discovered he was cruel too," she explains. "When I was dwelling on the possibility of leaving him, he hinted at what could happen to people that disappointed him and then his dad died, and he was _excited_ about it."

Her voice is meditative, if disgusted. "I realized that if I wanted to leave and protect myself and the people I care about I had to make sure he had no chance of hurting me anymore, so I played the loving girlfriend…the _stupid,_ loving girlfriend. He didn't care to be loved, only to be flattered, and I did that very well. I even managed to…not be close to him for awhile," she says, embarrassed to be talking to Jon about her sexual life with Ramsey, or lack of thereof. "I collected proof of his shady dealings…because it turned out he had quite a few. And I've tried to put together proof of what he did to his dad. I'm not sure it's actually enough to put him away. He has many connections," she reflects, "but it should be at least enough to keep him occupied for awhile."

"Did he find out? What you did, I mean. Is that why he attacked you, tonight?"

"No," she says, almost proud of the fact that _dumb_ Sansa could pass under his radar. "I guess flattery wasn't enough, tonight, and he wanted…he wanted _more_ from me." Her words are heavy on her chest. "I couldn't give it to him," she admits, her voice thinning in the effort not to cry as her breath becomes labored recalling the event of the night. "I could barely keep myself from recoiling at his touch, let alone…" If she thinks about that, her stomach will just retch. It has happened before, during the mornings when he had kissed her, and pressed himself against her, before she managed to find a valid excuse to send him away, "…let alone—"

"I get it," Jon says, "You were very brave," interrupting her tale and brushing her hair tenderly as he bends over her form on the bed. "You don't need to say anything."

She falls asleep under his tender caress, lulled by the hushing sound of his voice, and when her sleep becomes restless and agitated, he holds her to his chest quieting her down.

#

She wakes up alone, drowned in cotton sheets and the smell of Jon's skin, with the sun filtering in through the blinds, painting stripes of light on the clean floor.

Sansa drags herself away from her cozy nest in Jon's bed to walk the pavement in only the socks he gave her, trying to detect his presence from the noises in the house. She jumps a little when he comes out of the bathroom, and he offers her his kind, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

Sansa doesn't tell him that it's not out of fear that she was startled.

Jon is rubbing a towel over his head as another one is dangling dangerously around his hips, the cusp of a perfect V covered by the grey cotton, his defined pectorals in full display leaving Sansa no need to guess the well built curves of his muscles through the strain of his shirts. The dog tags shine on his wet skin.

"It's okay," she shushes him with a waving of her hand, the sleeve of the shirt so long she actually waves the fabric under her own nose. "I'll go make breakfast," she adds in a rush, as she feels the flush dive down along her slender neck. Thankfully her hair covers the most of it.

"Thanks," he says as she walks away swiftly.

"Mmmm-mmm, no problem," she replies, the knot in her throat impossible to swallow down as she inspect his fridge. Her heart is beating so fast that she thinks she might just end up with a stroke.

"Would you like some scrambled eggs?" she calls from the kitchen as he gets dressed.

"Please," he replies from his bedroom.

Stirring the eggs is one good way to unload the sudden _panic_ that just overtook her out of nowhere. She's inside Jon's kitchen beating a couple of eggs while he hasn't the slightest clue of the effect he has on her. He's probably still mooning over the silver haired girl from the picture and she's being her usual stupid self for feeling _things_.

Jon takes a bit more time than he needs to come back to the kitchen, and when he does he's slipping his phone into his back pocket. Sansa can't help but wonder if he called that girl.

She doesn't need to wonder long, because he tells her immediately.

"I called the Blackfish," he says, expanding on that when he realizes that she can't have a clue about the man at all. "He's a high-ranked official from the Riverlands Police. We can go once it comes the next watch round. His men will close both eyes while we take your stuff away from Bolton's apartment, and no one will mention your relationship."

"I can't thank you enough," she decides.

"You don't need to thank me," he says, scratching his beard embarrassedly. "You saved yourself from him. You're a strong girl, Sansa."

And suddenly, because he said it aloud, it becomes real. She is proud of herself, and she feels _strong_ for the very first time. She's so used to being the pretty one, the gracious one, the mannered one. She never thought of herself as strong. Like one ruled out the other.

"Breakfast is ready," she announces, cheery, opening both her hands to show him the plates on the table. She had a little frustration to get out so she made scrambled eggs with bacon, vanilla ricotta banana toasts with pistachios, egg wraps filled with turkey avocado and pepper, black coffee and green tea.

"Do we have guests?" he asks, cautiously, raising one eyebrow suspiciously. For a moment he sounds like a _husband_, like they share an everyday routine together, and there is a fluttering in her stomach.

"Did I make too much?" She twists her fingers. "I didn't know what you liked best and I got carried away. Cooking relaxes me…" she explains, grinning at him like she's just been caught with her hands in the cookie jar.

"That's okay," he says, sitting down in front of her. "You can cook all you want." He leans in to smell the food. There's a buttery aroma in the air that is making his mouth water, and the first bite just confirms his first impression. "You'll make me fat," he declares gravely, but his eyes kind of roll back into his head as he says so, making Sansa giggle as she sits down.

When they decide to go out, breathe in some air, she wears her clothes though they are a bit wrinkled, and uses one of Jon's plaid shirts as jacket.

They take Ghost out for a walk, buy a few things at the local market from a list Jon has compiled, and he carries all the bags without making a single lament. Her brothers would always make a fuss when they went shopping with her because Sansa had to touch and taste every single thing, making it a never-ending journey to survival.

Time passes so comfortably that when the police knocks at the door to tell them, "We'll go for a coffee," to signal that they have a few minutes to collect what they have from Ramsey's attic, she is taken by surprise, like she has suddenly realized it wasn't just a nightmare, like she has suddenly remembered Jon's place is not really her own, though it feels so.

Collecting her things is an easy task. For all his flattery and flowery declarations of love Ramsey treated her like a thing, and things occupy the space assigned to them, without asking for more. From the first day he had managed to get her to put her belongings out of sight. So, as she was putting together the pieces that could recompose his crimes, she had gradually put away her own, and he had never questioned her for keeping her skincare products inside a bag, or for putting away the pictures of her family. He was glad of it, and in some cases, he just hadn't bothered to notice.

In less than ten minutes she has taken away everything, but on the threshold, she stops to rush back. "Wait," she tells Jon, making him stop in his trail. On a corner table there's a little frame and inside a note. She takes into her hands to stare at it, relieved at first, then amazed.

The precise, if a little ordinary, handwriting is familiar, and not because she's read that note a billion times and kept it close to help her make it thought the hardest moments, but because she's been holding a list of groceries written down in the same handwriting all morning.

"You knew my father…" She's not asking, as she looks at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know how to tell you…" he admits, ashamed of his silence on the matter. "I didn't know if I was going to open a wound by telling you…"

She should feel betrayed, she thinks, and yet not. His words kept her together when her dad passed, reminded to hold on to her family, to her memories, reminded her that she's a Stark and life won't scare her into shrinking into her own skin.

She can't hold it against him, for Jon has been with her all along.

#

After five days, Jon's apartment suddenly has flower pots, flowy curtains, a couple of stuffed dragons, and between his collection of CDs of _Prince of Dorne_ and _Sons of Harpy,_ there's her new favorite singer's, _Missandei_'s, _Slave for You_. And though her musical tastes chill him out a bit, every time he thinks he should bring her back to her family, he chooses to forget she doesn't belong with him. Because it always feels like she does.

Sometimes he wonders what Ned would think of his behavior. What would he think of his passion? Though, he spends most of the nights reading on his sofa until he's sure she fallen asleep, and he lies down with his back to her so that he won't be tempted to do something _stupid_, so that he won't forget that they aren't really together, that this arrangement is temporary and out of practical necessity, so that he won't lean in and kiss her awake and kiss her senseless and make love to her until it's midday and Ghost starts wailing outside his bedroom door.

They are cutting vegetables in the kitchen when the call arrives, and for a brief moment he thinks that it doesn't necessarily have to end, the way she warms his rooms and his heart with her presence. He thinks what it would be like to come back from his mission to find her _home_, waiting for him.

He would like to be egoistical about this, but he can't. She's been in a difficult situation and holding her would equate to taking advantage of her. If she hadn't met a man that didn't know what had been offered to him, that had abused her trust and her body, she would still be the girl dancing on his ceiling like she did on his heart.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he informs her as she looks at him, curiously waiting to know who was on the phone.

It takes a long moment for her to get his meaning, and she nods her understanding. "When will you be back?"

"I don't know," he says, but even if he knew, she knows he wouldn't be allowed to tell her.

"I understand."

"I'll take you home," he says, going back to chopping vegetables like he's telling her something inconsequential. Maybe he's getting rid of her is, she thinks, a knife twisting in her heart.

"Okay," she says, turning around to take a pan from the cabinet so he won't see her hands shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, sweetie," Catelyn hugs her daughter like she hasn't seen her in years, and it's understandable considering that news has gotten out that her boyfriend turned out to be a murderer, though she still doesn't know Sansa lived with him.

Lady comes running to her mistress, smelling her clothes for she has detected the scent of Ghost, while from upstairs, a voice Jon can't decide is feminine or not asks Catelyn, "where is my baseball glove?"

In the kitchen a young boy is concentrating on a videogame on his laptop, the colors of the screen reflecting on his glasses. The soundtrack gives away the latest adventure of _The Third Eye Raven_. On the floor a little kid is pulling at his direwolf's tail, but the patient animal doesn't look like he's taking it to heart.

Sansa's home is so big it almost looks like a castle, and it's _loud_, to say the least.

"And you are…"

"He's my friend," Sansa says, introducing him, "Jon Snow."

A look of recognition clouds her mother's expression but she recovers quickly, inviting him in. "Please, come in Jon," she says, politely. As he walks past, she can see the giant head of a white direwolf out the window of his car.

"Can I offer you some coffee?" she asks.

"I don't wanna bother you, ma'am."

She can recognize immediately the posture and the words of a soldier. She's been married to one for almost twenty years and Jon walks inside her house the way her husband did when he was courting her.

"No bother," she says, keeping herself busy with making coffee for her guest, "You brought my daughter back. I want you to feel at home," she tells him, reminding herself of the debt she has towards this man. A man that was family to her Ned, though that family – always wearing black and always keeping secrets – has stolen time from her and she had resented them for years.

Now that the pain burns a little less, now that she can stare at his pictures without bursting into tears, she knows she was wrong, for his band of brothers were a part of him too, a part that made him the honorable man she loved.

"I was getting worried," she admits, bringing the mugs to the table where Jon sits. Sansa is ruffling her brother's hair, trying to annoy him as he plays, while Lady sits by her chair.

"When I saw the news, and you wouldn't come back home, I thought you had gotten yourself into some kind of trouble."

Cate knows she's right when she sees a look passing between her daughter and Jon. But Sansa just says "I'm fine, mom. Really," sounding sincere, and Catelyn knows that Jon Snow has helped a great deal at keeping her like that.

The front door opens again without warning, and a man enters carrying a royal blue gym bag over his shoulder, wearing the same colors, from the Winterfell national martial arts team. Jon has seen his face before, in the short pieces on sport pages.

"My little sister is back," he says, dimples showing as he smiles. A beautiful grey direwolf follows him. He has Sansa's blue eyes, and as she runs to hug him, someone laments, "_I_ am your little sister."

"Right, right," he concedes, as a short girl walks down the stairs, wearing her baseball uniform. The young man just places a kiss on top of Sansa's head. "Affectionate, today, are we? I must be lucky. My proper princess is usually so reluctant," he comments, looking down at her though they are almost the same height. "Did you miss me?"

"Very little," she concedes feigning a great effort into doing so. He puts an arm around her shoulders and walks towards their guest to introduce himself. "I'm Robb," he says, extending his hand, "Sansa's older brother."

"He means, Sansa's _perfect_ brother."

Robb rolls his eyes. "And she's Arya," he explains. "Words can't describe Arya."

A man could feel right at home in the Stark house.

#

"Will you—" It seems too much to ask for such a thing, too much to assume that he would want to see her again, stay in her life with something more than a few words on a note, but she can't help but ask. The heart wants what it wants. "Will you visit me when you are back?" She asks as they walk through the garden path to reach the car where Ghost is patiently waiting. Under their feet reverberates the melancholic melody of crushed leaves.

Autumn will follow wherever he goes, reminding him of Sansa's hair, of her eyes as she asked him if he would come back for her.

He's surprised by her question, wishing to attach to it meanings it probably doesn't hold, and looks hesitant to answer.

"Will Ghost come with you?" she asks, trying to fill the silence between them, trying to forget his hesitation so that maybe she will forget that he probably was trying to find a way to say goodbye without breaking her stupid heart.

Jon nods his answer, studying her face like he's trying to decide a course of action. Because autumn will follow him, but winter is coming, and maybe someone will keep her warm.

"I could…" he says, adding more only when he realizes he's not being clear at all, "…visit you, if you want. If you don't mind."

"I don't," she smiles, relieved. She could _cry_, and he has not promised her anything special. A visit. Kind people visit the ill and the poor, and the Gods know that Jon is nothing but kind.

"You take care of you while I'm away," he says, kissing her temple before going away, leaving her no choice but to stand there and watch him go. Praying that he'll be back safe.

As she watches from the kitchen's window, Cat knows exactly how that feels.

#

Lady is sleeping at her feet and she should in bed by now, but Sansa's mind goes back to the news. To the number of dead soldiers that are being brought home week after week and she must concentrate on something productive, something good. So she sketches, goes back to her pencils, trying not to tear the paper when her mind gets away from her.

She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and sees him.

Not an illusion from a dream, but his silhouette outside the gates of her house. She stands at the window, palms pressed against the glass to make sure it's not just a drunkard wondering aimlessly during the night and risking hypothermia, and then rushes down while the whole house is sleeping. Throws opens the front door and runs to the gate in nothing else but pajamas and a pair of ridiculous fluffy slippers she'd be ashamed to show if it wasn't so urgent to go, so important to reach him.

She opens the gate, one hand wrapped around the metal to support her shaky knees, and looks at him like she is having a vision. She's still not sure she is not.

"Weren't you going to ring?" she asks, waiting to hear his voice and assure herself of his presence.

"I didn't want to wake you," he replies, standing still.

"Were you planning to stand here all night?" she asks again, smiling though her eyes are glossy with unshed tears.

"I don't know," he confesses "I didn't have a plan," he says, shrugging, "But I told you I would come."

"That you did," she nods.

"I came."

But it's too cold. It's winter now, and it's past midnight. There are no proper visits done at such an hour and he should have known better.

"You should go back inside, you'll catch a cold," he says, taking a step back to go back to leave, but Sansa reaches out, takes his hand and it feels like he's not been touched in years.

"Stay," she says, tugging at his arm to drag him inside. He's heavy and well built. He'd resist her easily if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to. "I'll make you a bed in the guest room, and we'll have breakfast together, tomorrow."

Her pleading eyes look at him like he could refuse her.

"You'll make me fat," Jon replies, grinning at her.

#

When he wakes up inside Sansa's house he remains in bed, listening for the noises of a waking home. There are many, but he can only concentrate on Sansa's footsteps on his ceiling. For months later, she keeps on dancing over his ceiling like on his heart. For months later, her floor is still his ceiling and he kind of likes it that way, now. Because if this is all he'll ever get, then it's okay with him.

"Good morning, Jon," Cat says amiably, as she's setting the table. His plate is already in place. Obviously, her daughter has informed her of his presence, and she's behaving like the perfect host.

"Isn't your direwolf with you?" she asks, looking around him.

"I left him with the team," he says, turning around as he hears Sansa's steps approaching. He remembers too late not to smile like an idiot and he looks down when Cat fixes her eyes on him.

The whole family reunites around the table, and everyone behaves like Jon is an integral part of it. No one questions his reasons for being there, and when he tells them he's only on a short leave and he's meant to go back to his team by the evening they are actually disappointed by the news, especially Arya and Robb. He can't begin to guess what Catelyn Stark thinks of him, but she informs him the very moment they are alone, when everyone has left for school and Sansa has gone upstairs to get her cardigan.

Cat is wearing her jacket. "I will bring Rickon to kindergarten myself," she decides, stopping to turn around and ask, "You care for my daughter?" Though actually, her words are somewhere in between an accusation and a sad statement.

"I—" he starts taken aback, "Sansa is a great girl. Very sweet… I, we are friends, ma'am and—"

"That's not what I asked, boy." No one has called him boy since puberty, and he suddenly feels like one. Like she's going to ground him for a week and take away his games because he's done something that was forbidden.

"I do, ma'am," he confesses, starkly.

#

Sansa is sitting at the table watching the steam come up from her cup, when she slowly brings up her eyes to study his chest.

"Were you hurt?" she asks. He just stares at her, unsure about what to tell her. He doesn't want to lie to her, but he doesn't want to make her worry either. Most of all, he can't tell her he's woken up from a serious injury to find Daenerys sitting beside him and it only made him miss Sansa's face to the point of making it hard to breathe.

"I saw the news. Many soldiers were killed…" she explains. "They didn't even say where the conflict was."

"It's classified," he says. If he doesn't tell her, she can think he's on a mission in the Stormlands, maybe in King's Landing. That would still be better than the Iron Isles.

"Those soldiers. Did you know them?" she asks

"It's—"

"Classified, I know," she interrupts him, frustrated.

"I'm sorry," he tries to soothe her.

"I know that, too," she replies tiredly.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come," he decides, standing up from his chair. She's young, and she has probably many suitors to pick from and he's wasting his time, sitting at his table like a dog that's waiting for a crumb to fall.

"No, please," she rushes to him, holding his hand with both her own. "I'm sorry, I know there are things you can't say. I just… I was just worried, you know." She looks him in the eyes, defenseless, dragging out his instinct to protect her like it's that easy. "I thought… I thought…" she says, unable to breathe properly, "…maybe you were dead and I would never know."

She lowers her face, like she's defeated by her own words.

"You would," he admits quietly, "I enlisted you as my emergency contact."

Her head shoots up, eyes open wide. "What?"

"If I die, they will inform you," he repeats, regretting it almost immediately. She's holding his hand but he's dragging her into his life, and he shouldn't.

"I have to go now," he decides. "Dany is coming to pick me up. She'll be here any moment," he says, slipping one arm inside his jacket, then the other.

"Is she the girl from the picture?" she asks, taking him by surprise. It takes him a long moment to put the pieces back together.

"Yes," he replies, "I told you. She's a detonation specialist."

Sansa nods, her expression blank. "She's a member of your team?"

"It's—" He stops himself before he can give her the same empty answer. "No, we work together when needed."

"You only work together?" she asks, wrapping her cardigan about herself like she's going to freeze to death.

"It's…a long story," and he doesn't have time to tell her, doesn't even know if he should.

"Will you come back?" she asks, trying not to cry. He needs to fight himself not to reach for her and brush her tears away.

"I don't think I should," he says, and a tear rolls down her cheek. And then another, and another.

"That's not what I asked, Jon," she says, angrily wiping her tears away with the heel of her hand.

"Sansa…" he starts, feeling his chest being crushed by the weight of the distance between them. "I hurt people for a living. You don't need someone like me in your life," he explains, feeling the cruelty of his own words, of his own fate. "You should have someone different, some kind of prince charming that will shower you in gifts and offer you a life without any worry."

"I _had_ someone like that and you saw what he did to me!" she replies angrily. "If you don't want me, you can just say so and stop treating me like a stubborn child—"

"I'm not—"

"All these months, I've been waiting for you to be back, and I knew I wasn't good enough but I was so stupid. A stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns!" she continues, turning away from him, ashamed.

Jon grabs her arms, turns her gently as she tries to hide her face from him.

"You're not," he whispers, taking her chin between her fingers. "You're not. Please, don't cry," he begs her, taking the chain from around his own neck, to slide it down around hers, pulling the material of her sweater so that the dog tags fall between her breasts.

His fingers grip her sweater, like he's tempted to tear at the fabric, to take it off of her and see his tags on her naked skin. And see his mark on his girl.

"I'll be back," he says, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing her in like the last fresh air he'll have for years.

"You promise?"

"You think I have any other choice?" Jon asks, chuckling exasperated. "I don't," he says, pulling back if only to look into her eyes, as he cups his face with both hands. "I love you," he admits, painfully, like a confession an enemy is extorting from him. "I love you," he repeats. "I don't…" before his mouth crashes down on hers, taking from her a kiss that was his own to begin with, robbing her of air and her heart, violently, like his survival was on the line and he couldn't leave her no choice, nor chance to pull back from him.

The need is throbbing in his skull, in his veins, like she has pressed a button to self-destruction and it's only the sound of his cellphone that reminds him to stop. He's got her slender body pressed against his chest and her cheeks are bright red and her eyes are darkened by want.

"I have to go," he says, almost roars at the idea.

Sansa nods her answer unable to do anything else, but hold on to his shirt and breathe him in. Feeling the hardness of his whole body as he stands there, ready to leave her.

"Will you wait for me, Sansa?" he asks, one finger wrapping around a lock of hair, entranced by their color, by the silky feel of them against his skin.

"It's not like I have any other choice," she admits, smiling before she stands, tiptoes to kiss him again.

#

**Note: **This has been my first and last attempt at writing for jonsa. I was actually considering deleting it altogether but for now I'm leaving it here.


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